


it's just the woman in you (that brings out the man in me)

by plinys



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, F/M, Minor Injuries, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:44:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2120682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The five times FitzSimmons tried to have sex and it ended very badly for everyone involved (or mostly Fitz).</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's just the woman in you (that brings out the man in me)

**Author's Note:**

> For Jen, who has been bugging me to write this fic for the past month, and I've finally done it, even though FitzSimmons sex is such a struggle for me because these two are actually babies that need to be wrapped in blankets and cuddled and not 'doing the do' but since your wish is my command here it is. 
> 
> Also I rated this Mature, because I feel like its not detailed enough to be rated Explicit but I'm really bad with ratings, so somebody should tell me if I should change it.

1

“I think I’m going to throw up,” is probably the least romantic thing anybody could ever say, and just happens to be the exact thing words that fall out of her mouth after two minutes of their steamy snog session.  

“Wow, Simmons, you could have just told me I was a terrible kisser,” Fitz answers, in a sweet mostly teasing tone.

She almost feels bad for him, it’s their first time doing _this_ and he’s flushed, both from embarrassment and something entirely else, and she’s just about completely killed the mood.

He looks completely adorable and as much as she wants to lean back down and kiss him again, she has a feeling that the leaning down motion will end very badly for both of them. There’s something very _not hot_ about throwing up on people that she thinks their fledging relationship is just not ready for yet.

“It’s not you-“

“It’s me,” he finishes, mimicking her slightly, before his softens and asks, “what can I do?”

“Make the Earth stop moving,” she offers.

“Ah yes, sadly the laws of physics makes that a bit impossible.”

“Invent a time machine in order to go back in time and tell me not to challenge May to a drinking contest?”

At the time it had sounded like a great idea, a great team bonding experience and while Skye and Trip had failed easily enough, it had been her and Fitz left alone in the end to defend their team’s honor by drinking everything in alcoholic on the Bus and watching May carefully for a sign of her composure cracking. They’d had no such luck, but the alcohol has certainly helping with giving the final push towards a direction that they’d been heading toward for quite a while.

“That one’s slightly more reasonable,” he agrees, “though I would have to warn myself as well.”

“The world spinning yet?”

“Oh yeah,” he groans, lurching up from his sitting position, and even though she’s feeling a bit off balance and sick herself, she does her best to grab ahold of his shoulders and steady him.

“If you can walk we probably should-“

“Bathroom-“

“Exactly.”

 

2

 “We need to think of what to tell the doctors,” Jemma says, her fingers tight on the steering wheel.

“Why,” Fitz asks, his confusion would normally be charming, but also seems out of character enough that the verdict of him being concussed seems more and more likely to be true. 

 “I mean we can’t very well tell them that you were a bit too _enthusiastic_ and-“

“Oh god, Jemma, can we just pretend that that didn’t happen,” he groans, slumping forward to rest his head against the dashboard.

That’s probably not the brightest idea, but Jemma bites her lip and refuses to say anything about his choices of sitting positions.

Instead she says, “we need something to tell the doctors then.”

“Can we just tell them I hit my head on the wall or something,” he mumbles from his position.

Yes, she supposed that could work.

People hit their heads on walls all the time, they walked into them or – well, she couldn’t think of many other reasons people hit their heads on walls, but she was sure the nurses would understand.

So, she nods her head once, and watches from the corner of her eye as Fitz tries to do the same thing only to abort the motion and groan.

By the time they’ve somehow managed to make it to a hospital, Jemma is safely able to admit that the _moment_ is very much over, especially now that she has to keep reminding Fitz to keep his eyes open and keep talking to her.

Really it was just their luck that the first time they would try to move their relationship from more than quick kisses in the lab they would end up sitting in an urgent care waiting room rather than relaxing under the covers.

“Mr. Fitz,” their nurse finally calls.

Beside her she hears Fitz mumble, “it’s _Doctor_ Fitz,” before he lets her hoist him up and lead him to where the nurse is waiting to check him out.

“What’s wrong,” the nurse asks them.

“He hit his head,” Jemma explains, in a rush, trying to focus on lying to the nurse and not losing her focus, “on the wall, very hard.”  

“I’m very accident prone,” Fitz insists, at the nurse’s skeptical looks, “I’m always walking into things or hitting my head. Happens all the time, everybody’s just like ‘oh Fitz not again’,” his little laugh is obviously fake, but with a reluctant sigh the nurse seems to give into their explain and write something on her chart.

If she wasn’t as worried about the fact that Fitz might be concussed as she was, she was certain this moment would have been the appropriate time for a victory high five. Though at this point, she could almost imagine Fitz missing her hand and somehow she would accidently hit him in the head making things worse, so she just tucks her hand into the pocket of her jumper and says thanks the nurse for understanding their _complicated_ situation.

 

3

It’s the first time in a long while that they have some time to themselves, a break from all the missions that finally gives them the alone time they very much need, and a hotel room from which they will not be disturbed unless in _extreme_ emergencies.

This is exactly the sort of thing she had been dreaming of for weeks, when kissing just wasn’t cutting it. Kissing was always a good place to start, but she was impatient and surely he was too.

Though maybe with Fitz involved she should have known better than to rush things, because almost as soon as her hand slipped from his hips towards something very different, he startled forward, eyes flashing up to meet hers, and “oh.”

“Yes, oh,” she replies with a little smirk.

“We should,” he starts to say then pauses, his breath catching as her fingers continue their path, “bed, we should bed.”

“Very eloquent,” she teases, but since that was what she wanted in the first place, she was more than happy to lead the way.

The only problem was Fitz still wanted to kiss her, and while snogging while moving toward the bed only to fall back on it and have mind-blowing sex looked great it the movies it wasn’t so easily in practice, especially when they were in an unfamiliar hotel room.

She heard the breaking of the glass table right about the same time Fitz let out a very ungraceful and mood killing shriek.

Followed by a very frantic, “oh god, I’m bleeding.”

If the table breaking hadn’t already killed the mood, Fitz’s pale face and squeamish attitude at the sight of his own blood was enough to do it, and Jemma quickly switched from _turned on partner_ to _overly concerned friend with a decorate._

“Don’t look at it,” she commands, jerking his head up.

“I wasn’t trying to,” he insists stubbornly, “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t cut my bloody leg off.”

She snorts, “that pun was terrible.”

“Excuse me, I was trying to distract myself from the fact that you nearly killed me.”

“Wait, how is this my fault,” she asks, as she helps him hobble over to one of the chairs in their room.

He’s still incredibly pale and grimacing now, and the blood is running down the side of his leg onto the carpet which is not a good sign. Quickly she hurries into the bathroom to grab a towel and some tissues, anything that could be used as an impromptu first aid kit, while she tunes out Fitz explanation of how this whole mess was her fault.

“We’re not getting our security deposit back,” Fitz continues his ramblings, as Jemma uses a wet washcloth to wash off the blood on his leg, he hisses when the cloth comes in contact with the cut, “then again, what sort of people put a glass table in a hotel room.”

She just arches an eyebrow at him, instead of answering, which Fitz somehow takes as an indicator to continue talking.  

“I mean, honestly, it’s like they were asking for-“

“This is probably going to need stitches.”

“No,” he says, his face going paler as if that was even a thing, “couldn’t you just put a bandage on it?”

“Oh Fitz.”

 

4

“Ow, bloody hell,” he hisses, lurking backwards, which in their confined space only makes things worse, because there’s another hiss of pain.

In the brief light illuminated under the door she can make out Fitz’s grimace, his hand cupping his face.

“It wasn’t me,” she insists.

At least she didn’t think it was, but it was dark in their bunks and she couldn’t be entirely certain. Jemma thought she had bumped into the wall at some point, but that had been a bit before Fitz had let out his noise of distress, so that couldn’t have been it.

She pushes up off the tiny bunk, her fingers brushing along the edge of the wall until she finds the light switch.

“Let there be light,” she says with a little laugh, before turning to look at Fitz.

He’s still got his boxers on, but not much else, she quickly moves her gaze away from _that_ part of his body and instead focuses on whatever is causing the latest bit of distress.

His hand is cupping his nose, and when she moves forward to move his fingers away and check it out, he mumbles, “you elbowed me.”

“I did not,” Jemma corrects, “my elbows were right where they belonged.”

Her eyes search the mess of the bunk, with their clothing scattered about and then she finds the source of their problems. Fitz’s alarm clock, which normally sitting on the shelf above his bed, was sitting amongst their sheets.  

“Told you I didn’t elbow you,” she says proudly when she waves her find at him.

She’s pretty sure she hears him mumble, “cock blocked by a clock,” but him reaching for the clock means that she can finally see his obviously very blood nose.

“I think it’s broken,” she says.

“It just needs to be plugged in again.”

“Not the clock.”

His groan was to be expected.

“Give me a second and I can set it-“

“Oh no, you keep your hands to yourself,” he says shaking his head.

“Somebody has to set it!”

“Well then we’ll get Trip or somebody who’s not liable to break me any more than I already am.”

Fitz is mostly teasing, but he’s stubborn and unlikely to give in anytime soon, so she relents, settling back on the other side of the bed. “Before we do that, we should probably get dressed.”

And that is how, five minutes later they end up sitting around in Trip’s bunk half-dressed while Skye sets Fitz’s broken nose. An explanation as for what exactly Skye was doing in his bunk and how Trip never learned to set a broken nose was never offered, but she has a few suspicions on both accounts.

 

5

Since their bunks were clearly not going to cut it, their next best idea was to try the showers. Getting dirty while getting clean, it was an idea that seemed liked a great theory, seemed like a very appealing idea when she fantasied about it at night, but started to seem like a very bad idea once they were actually in the shower together.

Everything on the Bus was small and cramped, the complications of being stuck on a plane.

Their bunks were one thing, but the showers were even more of a tight squeeze, clearly only made for one person of average size, and while they’re both small enough to fit in there it doesn’t mean that there’s any wiggle room to actually do anything.

Fitz lets out a strangled, “oomph,” noise, one that is very unclear when it comes as to whether it is a good noise or a bad one.

Then again, Jemma thinks that _oomph_ illustrates her own feelings well enough.

“This is a bad idea,” Fitz says, his lips against the skin of her shoulder, “somebody’s going to end up falling and breaking their leg.”

“I don’t think there’s room to fall,” Jemma points out, gasping as his lips move lower than her shoulder, “and if anybody was going to break something-“

“It would be me,” he finishes with a laugh, before adding, “why is this so hard?”

“Is that a rhetorical question or,” she teases, “because I have a few ideas why you might be _so hard.”_

“You can’t just say things like that, and not expect me to-“

“To do what,” she asks mischievously, and that’s enough to get him to lean forward and attempt to show her exactly what she should have expected him to do.

And while their cramped space might make certain activities a bit impossible, it didn’t mean that they couldn’t do anything. Though it did mean that when she threw her head back in ecstasy it came in contact with the walls of the shower a bit too hard, making a thud against the cheap plastic.

It didn’t hurt too bad, and certainly wouldn’t have been enough that she would have to force Fitz to stop what he was doing, if it hadn’t been for what came immediately after.

“Hey, everything alright in there,” comes a voice from outside the stall door, they both jump at the sound of the other person’s voice and their accompanying knock.

They both hold their breath neither willing to respond.

Of course, their lack of response only causes the person on the other side to become more worried, because a second later the voices asks, “you’re not dead are you,” in a tone that is mostly joking.

Fitz is the first of the two of them to get his bearings back and reply, “yeah, I’m good.”

Which would have been fine except, “Fitz? I thought Simmons was taking a shower- oh, oh god, really guys? In the shower? Other people have to use that!”

 

 

+1

“No glass tables, no overly vindictive walls, no clocks to fall on you,” Jemma lists it all off with a smile, “but most importantly, twenty-four hours with no distractions.”

“Twenty-four hours,” Fitz repeats, drawing out the word with a sort of breathless amazement.

“Twenty-four hours,” Jemma answers, “maybe at some point this time we can actually get things right.”

“I’m sure we can figure something out, we’re geniuses, after all.”

“That we are.”

 

 


End file.
